Once this place used to hold the yin and yang scenery of Blossom Field. Now, there are miles of winding tundra. To the north, this tundra is cruel and dry, with wisping weaves of tall grasses. The ground is cracked and cold, and it hardly is ever moistened by dearly desired rainfall. To the south, the tundra becomes more prosperous - meadows of flowers and herbs grace the ground. Part of this connects near Elebeam Weargtreow - however it is an impassible field of poppy, which will put any wolf trying to cross it into a deep slumber, and eventually die.

Those looking to hunt here will find mice, snakes, and rabbits, along with pronghorns, bison, and javalinas.


í'm α prєdαtσr, rαpturє

Lyudmila was in so much trouble.

The adventurous young lass hadn’t meant to stray so far from Crith Thalmhainn. She’d certainly made the conscious decision to cross the border that separated her stretch of red-tinged rock from everyone else’s, but wandering all the way down the foothills and into the open plains hadn’t been one of her plans. It was if her overlarge paws had made this mistake on their own . . . carrying her innocent body long past the “safe” zone her mother had designated and into the mysterious land of strangers. Behind her, the mountains rose up into the sky like a line of rusty teeth, slicing up that vast expanse of blue; before her, an ocean of long green grass rippled and waved in the breeze, undulating like the luxurious pelt of a massive beast; here and there, clustered close together, her fascinated eyes caught splashes of vibrant color—blossoms bobbing their heads, petals giving off lovely sweet smells. Lyudmila’s heart hammered in her breast. She acutely sensed the danger of wandering all alone, nobody knowing where she was and unsure how to return home, and yet the pallid damsel continued creeping forward. Snowy eyes framed by their mask of russet were wide and gleaming with undiluted awe. Her mother was definitely going to kill her. So why not enjoy her last few hours on earth?

Though she had never met the man, Mila closely resembled her tundra father as she wove through the lush summer carpet. He’d given her his feathery ivory robes, still soft and downy on her childish frame. Her mother had left her mark mainly on the girl’s face; a masquerade decoration of deep auburn splashed across her pure white windows—a flare of fire surrounding ice. As she grew, she would become a sleek swan . . . now, however, the little dancer resembled more of an ungainly bundle of fluff. Especially when she heard the bright music of a river, and instantly determined that the most logical course of action was to find it and splash around. The vanilla ballerina did not even pause to gauge the current or the depth of that rushing ribbon of water—as soon as her paws hit the bank she was jogging forward and letting out a girlish squeal when the wetness lashed her fur.

Lyudmila growled and snapped at the droplets that sprang up around her short legs, thoroughly soaking her skirts and her face. Water in Crith did not have this crystalline flavor . . . the princess was used to lapping from underground springs that carried the tang of metal and mineral. “Mmm . . .” She licked her chops—the perfect image of a sommelier sipping the finest wine—and soon bounded back out of the river to charge into more adventure. Gods, if Nimueh were going to kill her, Mila might as well make the crime fit the punishment . . .

“A boy!” She blurted the words before she could stop herself, porcelain lanterns going wide when she saw a young lad prancing about not too far off. He was a color she’d never seen before; a cocoa so diluted it appeared nearly white. He was probably very soft to the touch . . . wait, what? Why on earth had THAT crossed her mind? Yet the more Mila quietly studied him, water still streaming from her pelt, the more steadfast this observation became. Indeed, this boy must be the softest. She had to touch him. She had to. Or else this entire adventure was for nothing. “You—over there! Stop! I have to pet you!”


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